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Green - A Future Fairytale

By Metaphorest

A crackling campfire kaleidoscopes the black with blaze. All else elsewhere is ether. Lit lampish lounges a travelling-type, bedraggled Bedouin of the city-skirting scrublands. His lingering figure flummoxes foxes, unsettles slugs and subdues the skulks of suburban skunks. All stands still. Even the woodlice watch and wait.

Down below lies an electric landscape, dark carpet criss-crossed with regimental glowing rows. Tucked neatly into their two up two downs, the toddlers dream of dreaming dreamier dreams, the feared of fear itself scream muffled screams and sour at the hour. Too late for night, too soon for morn, the lull before a day is born - full with the creak of shifting cogs, the hollow howls of sorrowful dogs.

And all the while, the traveller simply stares. Sits and stares. Stares and sits. A burden bears down, leadlike on his brow, hooding ember eyes into a frown. Half underlid, they scan the stirring city. Commuters cringe as pre-dawn beckons them from bed. The city’s outer rings light up with action. Flashy Fords fire up and tired tube-trains trundle, darting and carting their eye-bagged booty townward. The revolving tongues of tarblack towers carousel the cads inside, ants antagonised by drowsy, daily drudgery.

The traveller sighs; a sizeable sigh that shakes the leaves off trees and leaves the woodlice worried. The armoured evolutionaries huddle, harboured in a hut of broken bark as the shadowed stranger stands. With a subtle stomp the flames are maimed. In ghostly grey the stranger shimmers odd, as if enflamed himself inside. Deepset eyes devour the dawn, slittish stones narrowed at the new day.

The traveller towers tall above the town. He unhoods, stoutly stood, locks his lips into an open O and blows. A breeze is born amid the brush and then a whitish wind whips up that whooshes through the scrub. This mist shooshes suburban hiss then, block by block, knocks off the shocking neons and the freezing freons.

A swarm of suits stop dead and stare. The traffic lights aren’t lighting, buildings aren’t brighting, taxi drivers fighting with their passengers alighting from the streetstalled cars that swamp the ramps. Revolving doors cease spinning, leaving towers tongue-tied. The air feels damp and dreamish and the drowsy drones turn squeamish. Some suspect a supernormal cause for this electric pause.

All the while, still stands the traveller, the newly named urbane unraveller. And from his fingertips, a faint hum comes. The air it quivers queerly, shimmers in a strange stream, humming outward, ever downward toward the silenced city. Every bit it touches turns to greenery, the scenery made cleaner by this organic overture.

Stems and creepers bombard city’s borders. Leafy shoots take root in concrete corners. Sweetpea swallows cement cellblocks. Clematis climbs to cover the clocks that told the time to rushing rats and rang the bells for fatted cats. As the ants observe enthralled, the streets evolve to ivy halls.

The stranger stops the streaming green, steps softly back to see the scene. Content, he hoods himself once more and in the scrub appears a door, a door that wasn’t there before. Through it he steps, his worthy work done; drudgery for greenery, a city re-begun.

Green - A Future Fairytale

Created: Dec 18, 2009

Tags: alliteration, environment, rhyme, story

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